


in the absence of her

by winterbones



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, PWP, Pre-Series, With a helping of angst, boys are so dumb, dumb dumb dumb, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 17:16:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterbones/pseuds/winterbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>do not fly close to the sun when your wings are fashioned in wax. or, a lesson the pan of neverland never learned.</p>
<p>sequel/side-story to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1014879/chapters/2015371/">like something hungry</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	in the absence of her

It bothered him that the air seemed stifling without the infusion of her scent—something powdery, like a half-remembered dream from a time before he was called _the Pan_ , master of Neverland, but he didn’t like to think of those times, because Neverland was sprung up from the very garden of his bones, and he didn’t like remembering the world bereft of Neverland; it felt wrong and perverse. But her scent had gotten caught in the Pan’s nose, unwilling though it might have been. Fresh powder and downy sheets, the frilled ruffle coverlet she had no doubt been dozing in when his shadow had stolen her away.

The Pan was known for his dark, mercurial moods—as fluid as Neverland itself, the mermaids took to calling him _woodland-born_ because they were convinced no mortal mother could have birthed him, that he was sprung up from the dark heart of the sticky Neverlandian jungle. The Pan liked to humor himself in thinking they were right, though the visages of a former life clung to his eyes like the remains of sleep.

His lost boys knew to keep distance from him when he was in one of his fouler moods, but this one set them on edge, like a knife pointed lightly to their gut. One of the boys had had the misfortune of knocking over a pot and disturbing his musings—the Pan had let a jungle cat chase the lad for miles before whisking his battered body back into the fold; a lesson learned. The other boys had laughed, feasted on the violence and smell of ripe terror, but a cord of nervous warbled below it.

“Should have killed the bird when we had the chance,” he had overheard Felix mutter, mostly to himself.

Felix had a point, he always did. The Pan dreamt that night of sinking his teeth into her pale, ivory throat, swallowing the addicting taste of her, filling himself up with her. He woke up with the nether part of him throbbing like an open wound.

The concept of hell was a foreign one to the Pan—it was a construct of adults, and those who felt mortality breath on their neck—but if he had understood it, he might have wished _Wendy Moira Angela Darling_ to every corner of it and back.

The damage she had wrought was already done—he could feel it. He had not been as he should have been when the bird had been dropped into his lap, the death of magic already taking its toll on the body of the boy who was the embodiment of all its wildest properties, but she had made it worse. He could feel a tingle in his fingertips, when he thought about twining his fingers through the wild curls of her honey-rich hair, muscles clenched in his legs when his name tangled on her lips in a plea. _Growing pains_ —and he should have never felt them; his body should not be half-an-adult, stunted in a purgatory of _not nearly grown_ , just enough to keep Neverland alive. His body was expanding, while his world was contracting. He would not fit in it for much longer, if he was not careful.

Perhaps he should have drowned her; or given her to the mermaids for the task. The Pan kept the thought ideal at the back of his head—but remembered her mouth hot beneath his, her hips canting upward, receiving him. He had brushed against the adult world before, but it had never left an imprint on him, it had never held any thrill for him. When she crashed through the glass plating of his world, he had begun to image what it would have been like, to be a man, to be a man who could take a woman.

He dreamt of her now, and of the night in the jungle, in the little hidden away section of cleared trees. He had been enraged that Hook had had her—a man, something inside him had hissed and had paced around his brain like a caged beast—but he had intended to kill her there, wet her blood on his sword, but then he had kissed her and pushed her to the ground and undressed her and she had gasped his name into his mouth like he was something holy.

And then he’d been a man, taking a woman. He’d known what it meant, even if the particulars had eluded him. Wendy had already mocked him for not understanding the subtle differences of _mother and father_ and _husband and wife_. He’d shown her he _had_ , and that night he had made her his wife—leafs in her hair and dirt on her knees, and him inside her.

“ _Peter_ ,” he could almost hear her pant into his ear, and the Pan twisted sideways in his half-sleep. He was called the Pan, Peter the clinging remnants of a boy he had buried a millennia ago in offering to his immortality, but he hadn’t been either of those names that night. He’d been something _she_ had conjured up, brutal and hard and dark and wild and completely wedded to her, unable to divorce himself from the essence of her, breathing for her.

Alone, in the little hollowed out nook at the top of a thick tree, the Pan’s eyes fluttered in a dreamstate. He remembered Wendy’s puckered lips, and them imagined them fluttering kissing along his naked chest. She was naked, too, of course. He had a clear memories of her breasts, budding and fascinating, too small in the cup of his hand but soft and warm. He kissed them as he had that night, tongue over the beaded nipple as she arched into him, fingers clawing at his hair.

The fuzzy edges of the scene were ignored; her lips coasted back over the planes of his chest, across the ridges of his ribcage, to the jut of his hip to his—his dream was disturbed by his brain stuttering over the right word, grasping at cock; he’d heard it once, from a pirate crew in a vague memory from long ago.

Her mouth closed over his—his cock. The Pan was certain Wendy wouldn’t know to do such a thing. He wasn’t even sure how _he_ knew, except a body must have some instinctive knowledge of the best ways of chasing pleasure. Her tangled hair spilled over his hips, tickling his naked thighs, as her mouth kissed his aching shaft, stiffening impossibly with each shy brush of lips.

She tongued his mushroomed head, her own bowed so he could not see her eyes. Something was wrong about that, but the Pan could only arch his neck backward and howl. Her hand rested flat on his stomach, and he caught it, dragging it up and ignored her mild sound of protest at the hyperextension. He sucked one finger into his mouth, creating a circuit between them, a current. Emboldened, her mouth came fully over his cock, her cheeks hollowing out as she drew him into her mouth, swallowing him, consuming him. He widened the spread of his legs, and she settled between them comfortable, the sound of her sucking making twin blotches of color stain his cheeks, the veins in his neck throbbing in time with the bobbing of her head.

“Wendy,” he groaned out, the closest thing he had ever come to a prayer.

And when her hips lifted, the fingers of her free hand slipping between them to touch herself, the visual was too much. He climaxed with a crazed groan, and she licked and sucked more, draining him dry, finally easing him out of her mouth with a wet pop, her cherry-red lips swollen and gleaming. She lifted her chin and at last he could see her eyes—

The Pan woke up, one hand wrapped around his flaccid cock, the sticky fluid of his release already drying on his stomach. Wendy was gone, because she had never been. He’d sent her away because of _this very reason_. The danger she posed to him.

And with all the strength and selfishness half-a-man-half-a-boy could muster, he wished her back.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. because everyone wanted the pan's side of the story
> 
> 2\. sorry i am in love with unrepentant evil villains who are still capable of having feelings
> 
> 3\. boys are dumb


End file.
